As he entered his rooms Sunday evening about seven, he found a telegram and a telephone notice from the hotel office. The latter merely informed him that Berrien, Connecticut, had called him at four o'clock. The telegram read: "For Heaven's sake come up here at once. Aunt Ursula is dead." It was signed Iris, and Bannard read it, standing by the window to catch the gleams of fading daylight. Then he sank into a chair, and read it over again, though he now knew it by rote. He was not at all stunned. His alert mind traveled quickly from one thought to another, and for ten minutes his tense, strained position, his set jaw and his occasionally winking eyes betokened successive cogitations on matters of vital importance. Then he jumped up, looked at his watch, consulted a time-table, and, not waiting for an elevator, ran down the stairs through that atmosphere of Sunday afternoon quiet, which is perhaps nowhere more noticeable than in a city hotel. A taxicab, a barely caught train, and before nine o'clock Winston Bannard was at the Berrien railroad station. Campbell was there to meet him, and as they drove to the house Bannard sat beside the chauffeur that he might learn details of the tragedy. "But I don't understand, Campbell," Bannard said, "how could she be murdered, alone in her room, with the door locked? Did she--didn't she--kill herself?" But the chauffeur was close-mouthed. "I don't know, Mr. Bannard," he returned, "it's all mighty queer, and the detective told me not to gossip or chatter about it at all." "But, my stars! man, it isn't gossip to tell _me_ all there is to tell." "But there's nothing to tell. The bare facts you know--I've told you those; as to the rest, the police or Miss Iris must tell you." "You're right," agreed Bannard. "I'm glad you are not inclined to guess or surmise. There must be some explanation, of course. How about the windows?" "Well, you know those windows, Mr. Bannard. They're as securely barred as the ones in the bank, and more so. Ever since Mrs. Pell took that room for her treasure room, about eight or ten years ago, they've been protected by steel lattice work and that's untouched. That settles the windows, and there's only the one door, and that Purdy and I broke open. Now, that's all I know about it." Bannard relapsed into silence, and Campbell didn't speak again until they reached the house. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" was the first greeting to the young man as he entered the hall at Pellbrook. It was spoken by Mrs. Bowen, who had been with Iris ever since she was summoned by telephone, that afternoon. "It's all so dreadful,--the doctors are examining the body now--and the coroner is here--and two detectives--and Iris is so queer----" the poor little lady quite broke down, in her relief at having some one to share her responsibility. "Isn't Mr. Bowen here?" Bannard said, as he followed her into the living-room. "No, he had to attend service, he'll come after church. Here is Iris."